The year we came to Port Royale, I was only nine years old. I was used to London, were the clouds hung permanently overhead and the fog squeezed it way into every nook and cranny. I loved it there. The rain, the cold, the bright fires, the hot drinks and the warm fur coats.
However, I wasn't particularly sad or angry that we were leaving the city that had always been our home. The first day we arrived, I thought I was in paradise. Father was too busy orchestrating the servants to notice Elizabeth and I. Our life-long nanny, Mrs. Pirren had disappeared to our new bedrooms to help the maids clean and dictate where all our belongings went.
Lizzie and I had taken off our shoes and stockings and run into the large garden at the back of the house. There were no flowers, only tall hedges, bushes and trees. Being used to the cobblestone streets of the city, we thought we had stepped into a fairy tale and where now in a magical land. For the first five minutes, we had only stared, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
We spent hours running around in the grass, playing hide-and-seek, and Fairies, a game that had us pretend to be fairies, flitting about.
That day was also the first day that I ever climbed a tree. I had felt so strong, so powerful, being able to overcome an object at least five times my height.
As the sun began to set, we tired of our games and only sat on the grass watching the bluest sky we had ever seen. London had always been overcast and the sky was only viewable for a couple months of the year. Even then, it could never compare to the sky here.
The sounds of the servants milling about had stopped and we waited, expecting for someone to come out and call us in either for dinner, or for bed.
We were happily surprised that no one came out. For the next four hours, we continues playing and enjoying the garden.
That is until the time reached midnight. We heard the grandfather clock's gongs from the garden and stared at eachother, socked and extatic. This was the first time that we had ever staid up so late.
Our happiness, however, did not last long. Two minutes later, the back doors of the mansion flew open and a frantic crowd emerged. Servants, Mrs. Pirren, and my father came barreling in the garden.
It turns out that they had been searching for us since sundown and had scoured the entire town of Port Royal before realizing that the garden at the back of the house had been left unsearched.
We were brought in to the house and sent directly to our rooms. We knew a punishment was coming our way but for a strange reason, Father left us alone for the next few days.
Those days where some of the hardest of my life in regards to patience. I have never been a patient person and it was torture for me to wait in silence for my father's verdict. Waiting for a surprise is one thing; waiting for something bad to happen, is completely different.
During those days, I remember wishing that we had never left London. I was young and...stupid. Like all young children, I thought that it was the end of the world. I believed that if we had never come to Port Royal I wouldn't be in trouble. Then again, I probably would have gotten into some other kind of trouble if we had stayed in England.
That was the last time that I preferred London over Port Royal. Until now.
It is only now that I've lived in the Caribbean for around seven years that I realize how good life was in London.
There they had the most beautiful fashions. Here, we get clothing that are, for the most part, already outdated there. There they had countless plays and performances that we had occasionally attended. Here, we make do with staying at home reading, singing, or playing the piano. There... they had doctors that could cure almost anything. Here, we aren't so lucky.
Greaves' face is cold to the touch but moist with sweat. He is calmly sleeping but every breathe he takes is laboured and slow. Watching him like this is like watching a corpse that has yet to stop breathing.
I take his worn leathery hand in mine and rub them softly, trying to heat his stiff fingers.
"Is there anything at all that you could possibly do?" Thomas asks the doctor.
Doctor Walters shakes his head solemnly. "I am sorry. It is only a matter of time before he leaves."
I look up surprise, "But Greaves told me that you had treated this illness before and pretty much knew what to do."
The doctor looks taken aback, "I've never seen anything even similar to this illness in my life." He says incredulous, "Why on earth would he say such a thing?"
I shake my head, unable to answer.
"Greaves," I whisper to the still form, almost choking the words out, "Why did you lie? Why did you make sure that we wouldn't truly worry until it was too late? How could you be so stupid?"
Thomas puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to him. I lay my head down on his shoulder and will myself not to cry.
"Is there anything you could give him to ease the pain?" Will asks from the corner of the small room.
I turn in surprise, unaware that he had even entered the room. He looks back at me, sympathy clouding his eyes. I give him a sad smile and turn back to Greaves.
I don't know how much time goes by. Everyone comes and leaves at intervals but Thomas and I stay, sitting still and silent.
By the time I realize that multiple hours have gone by, the sky outside is dark and my legs have fallen asleep.
"What are we going to do?" I whisper to myself.
Thomas pulls me tighter to him, "I don't know." He replies, "I really don't know. Can we do anything?"
We fall into calm, not knowing what we could say that that would help the situation.
"Annalee?" A raspy, hoarse voice breaks the silence.
I jump in surprise and grab Greaves' hand. "Hey." I choke out, a single tear sliding down my cheek. "How are you feeling?"
"Don't blame the doctor." He does not even acknowledging my question. "No one could have saved me. It wasn't even a matter of time." He manages to whisper, his words barely understandable.
I get to my feet, surprised at what he is asking. How could he be so forgiving? "Of course I am going to blame the doctor." I state, "It is his fault that –"
"Annalee." Thomas cuts me off.
I look down to see that Greaves isn't paying any attention at all. He isn't moving and his loud breathes have disappeared. His eyes lie open and still and his chest is unmoving.
"Greaves?" I say, even though I know he won't hear me. "Greaves, please wake up." My eyes fill up and I can feel myself about to collapse. "Greaves. Greaves!" I won't give up. "Please, answer me,"
"Thomas!" I whirl around to find that he hasn't moved an inch but now, a single tear streak marks his face. "Do something!"
He just shakes his head, "Annalee-"
"Do not 'Annalee' me!"
Thomas stands up and reaches for my hand. I slap him away but he only grabs my entire self and presses me to him.
I fight his grip for a few moments before exhaustion overcomes me. I grab on to Thomas with whatever strength I have left.
"Why, Thomas? Why?" I blubber into his shirt.
He doesn't answer, which leaves more space for my crying which I involuntarily intensify.
Why did he have to leave? Why? Why? He didn't do anything wrong! ... He didn't do anything very wrong.
Thomas strokes my back, attempting to calm me down. His soft voice and the rhythmic strokes eventually calm me down.
My tears still come but my sobs have disappeared, replaced by shallow breaths.
My eyes grow heavy and Thomas carefully takes me up in his arms.
My eyes are closed but I can tell that he is leaving the room, walking in the hallway, through a few twists and turns and finally to my door.
The door squeaks as it is slowly pushed open.
Thomas slowly places me on the bed and covers me with a blanket.
My eyes stay closed, almost as if they open, I would have to face the tragedy of Greaves' passing.
Thomas slowly exits the room, closing the door behind him. I hear him lean on the door and a few gentle sobs escapes him.
Most men would be ashamed of such a thing, but Greaves' was Thomas' father. I would think less of him if he didn't show a little emotion and cry.
Thomas' walks away and I wait until his footsteps have disappeared.
I wait...
And wait...
And wait...
Until it hurts too much to hold it all in.
Until the pain searing through my chest grows too large.
Until I realize that tears do not represent weakness.
And I weep.
